


Better to Hope Than to Despair

by recrudescence



Category: Glee
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burt discovers what else Kurt keeps in his hope chest. Sorry, Burt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better to Hope Than to Despair

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/glee_kink_meme/1224.html?thread=3031752#t3031752) from the Glee Kink Meme.
> 
> The title is from the quote "In all things it is better to hope than to despair" by Goethe.

  
Duck fat, he'd said. Something about moisturizing agents.

Burt didn't have a clue what any of it meant or how one would go about acquiring duck fat hand lotion, but if his kid swore by the stuff then he was willing to bet a pile of cash that it actually worked, even though it sounded like it was better suited for deep-frying than skin rejuvenation. Kurt always was picky about things like that, a tendency that manifested itself in everything from storyboarding his accessories for the week to color-coding his mother's sock drawer before he was even in preschool.

And his hands were killing him. Just cracked skin from too many hours in the garage, nothing as daunting as arthritis—though a disapproving voice in the back of his head reminded him he wasn't young enough to brush off the option—and the most sophisticated treatment Burt had lying around was a mostly-empty tube of Vicks. So now he was rooting through the phalanx of bottles and containers covering Kurt's dresser, trying to find the right one and finding the whole process unreasonably distracting.

For a good five minutes, he had been studying something that looked like a medieval torture device, turning it this way and that before realizing it was most likely an eyelash curler. That wasn't particularly reassuring. Did guys really curl their eyelashes? Did it even make a difference? Burt couldn't remember ever noticing anyone's eyelashes being all that spectacular, curly or not. It seemed like an awful lot of effort for nothing.

Most of the things on the dresser seemed to be herbal or fruit-oriented. He wouldn't put it past Kurt to arrange beauty products by food group. Burt set down a tin of pineapple-scented cuticle cream, cast a cursory glance at his own perfectly serviceable cuticles, and tried to guess where else Kurt was storing his skin-care stash.

Maybe he'd found a new use for the cedar trunk after Burt confiscated the tiaras. He'd kept close tabs on Kurt's online shopping habits for some time after that incident, even though Grandma Julie probably would have been pleased to know her hope chest was still being put to such creative use.

If anything, Kurt had just upped the creativity factor. No tiaras this time, just a framed photo on a small velvet pillow—captioned with a name and a pair of dates in Kurt's handwriting; someone called McQueen who wasn't Steve—a handful of candles, some neatly folded clothes, a couple things that looked like corsets or women's lingerie that had Burt ready to slam the lid and forget he'd ever lifted it.

A glint of silver.

He reached for it.

Far too small to be a tiara, at least. Just a chain, finely linked and gleaming in the palm of his hand. Burt assumed it was jewelry at first. Perhaps unfortunately, its true identity wasn't nearly as baffling as the eyelash curler. Burt's mouth was hanging ajar. "My God..."

Burt didn't generally ask questions about how his son spent his pocket money, but he suddenly had a powerful urge to revise that policy. He just wasn't sure sitting down to have a discussion about it would make matters better or worse. Kurt had obviously already purchased nipple clamps from _somewhere_. And that meant he was either using them on himself or...someone else.

No. Not someone else. Hope chest. So he was _hoping_ to, presumably. Jesus roller-skating Christ.

Somewhere in Germany, Grandma Julie was turning in her grave.

He replaced them as quickly as possible, pausing to untangle one of the clamps—_clamps_, for fuck's sake—from a ribbon dangling from something that, upon closer examination, was _definitely_ a corset. Kurt would probably make a case for that being jock chic, too. Burt felt a half-smile tugging at his mouth in spite of himself.

And there was something else, something that stood out simply by virtue of being so incongruous amidst all the other contents. It looked like a modern art sculpture, and Burt's first thought was that it was some kind of craft project Kurt had started and abandoned. Clear heavy glass and tapered at one end. Some sort of statue, maybe. He hefted it, puzzled, and his hand fit perfectly around the base.

Oh. Oh, God.

Burt couldn't move. "Jesus cartwheeling Christ on a cracker..."

"Deadliest Catch is on."

Kurt sounded close to either death or tears. Burt stared at him. Kurt stared at the ceiling. "That means please go upstairs and watch it. Immediately."

"Hey." He started, trying to shoehorn words into sentences even though his throat felt as dry as his palms. "You said that hand stuff would—the duck thing—I was lookin' for..." Gesturing, realizing what he was gesturing with, dropping it back into the chest with a horrifyingly loud clunk. "Buddy...what the hell is this?"

"A science project."

"Kurt." As gently as he could, Burt frowned at him.

"It's completely sanitary. Pyrex is hypoallergenic and dishwasher-safe."

Dishwasher. Oh, God. Kurt's hands were curled whitely around the strap of his shoulder bag and his face was crimson.

"Look, I trust you. You know that." And _God_, he could have gone without imagining his kid doing _anything_ with that...thing. Ever. He still had a very clear picture of it in his head, transparent and rigid and...Kurt was _really_ not a large guy, and Burt didn't even know how that would _work_, just going by a sense of proportions. He felt dizzy. "Just. Keep it smart and...yeah."

"Yeah, Dad."

"When you get a boyfriend, he better treat you like gold." He finally closed the damn trunk, exhaling as the lid settled into place, and crossed the room to clasp Kurt by one tense shoulder. "I don't need to hear about...anything...but." It wasn't easy urging Kurt to meet his eyes, but he managed, if only for a split second. "_Gold_. I mean it."

"I don't think there's any danger of me being anything but single for approximately the next thirty months. Or in me being undiscerning about changing that status." Kurt looked almost amused by the notion, if twitching his lips wanly could be considered amused.

Burt saw that as enough of a win to pass muster. "Good." He paused and turned around halfway up the stairs. "That thing could probably double as a weapon, you know."

"_Dad_."

In the kitchen, Kurt had left donuts on the counter and there turned out to be a neat little pouch of duck fat in the refrigerator. Burt bypassed it for a beer instead.


End file.
